Trump Card
by fuckingtodd
Summary: A year after his election, President Trump unveils his master plan. (AKA John Cena vs the World)


Trump Card

ACT I

Origins

The hall was long, and men in suits lined the narrow pathway. Some greeted one another happily, with kisses on the cheeks and warm hugs, others with cold glances and scoffs of disdain. But the fact that the men were gathered here today in one room was an accomplishment, and at their core they all knew that. Peace at last was within their grasp, and there was only one man who could claim responsibility for that enormous accomplishment. At the head of the lengthy hall, a black platform stood, though the men in the hall were unaware of it's existence, concealed by a milky white curtain.

Suddenly, the lights dimmed. The curtains slowly parted, and the men went silent as the one and only Donald Trump was revealed. He wore a jet-black suit, a rose in his lapel. "Gentlemen," he stated, his powerful voice thundering through the grand hall. "It has been an incredible 2016. With my extensive foreign policy skills, I have solved every single issue in the Middle East simply by building enormous walls between every country." This statement was met with roaring applause from all across the hall, and a single tear of admiration and awe rolling down one man's face, who sat alone in the back of the room.. That man was named Benjamin Netanyahu. Ever since he was young, he had aspired to be like the grand billionaire, to walk as he did, to speak as he did. But he knew it was an impossible task. There was an air about Donald "The Don" Trump, one that could not be replicated, one that man nor woman could ever aspire to, much less achieve. He was an enigma, a symbol of something greater than anyone in that room. Netanyahu was inspired, and it showed on the Israeli Prime Minister's face. Donald cleared his throat. "It's a shame that it must end this way, but in the end the only true way to pave a better tomorrow."

A wave of confused murmuring broke out across the crowd. "What does he mean?" The men whispered to one another, with looks of concern or amusement on their face. Donald cleared his throat loudly into the microphone again, silencing them. "I'm sorry it has to end this way," He said, turning away from the crowded hall. "But there is only one man who can truly decide the fate of the middle east." Trump paused again. "AND HIS NAME IS JOHN CENA!"

Trumpets blaring from the speakers, John Cena smashed through the wall, crashing headfirst into Ali Khamenei, the supreme leader of Iran. Khamenei, terrified and flustered, scrambled upwards and limped for the exit, his leg unusable. But it was too late. Cena rose, brandishing his fist, and punched the Iranian leader's head clean off, sending it flying across the room. He gave a hearty chuckle. "What a great way to head this meeting off." He grinned widely, approaching the Lebanese president, Michel Suleiman. The leader stuttered, panicked. "Wh-who are you?" Cena laughed out loud. "My name is John Cena. And this sunday night, I will face off against 15 separate middle eastern leaders, all at once, within the ring of dooooom!" The walls of the hall fell apart in one cataclysmic movement, revealing a massive wrestling ring.

Multiple leaders immediately soiled themselves at the sight of the massive ex-marine, who tore his T-Shirt off in order to reveal his spectacular set of abs, glistening in the light of the now-exposed sun. He began to softly hum "Proud to be an American" by Bruce Springsteen as he walked slowly towards Seyyed Ali Khamenei, the second Supreme Leader of Iran. Ali began to speak in Arabic as Cena approached, cracking the knuckles on his enormous hands. He moved downwards into a crouching position. Ali hesitated. With the force of a thousand suns, Cena propelled himself forwards, launching the elderly arab into the edge of the ring with such force that his back immediately snapped, killing him instantly. Cena, in the center of the ring, began to stretch his arms. King Salman bin Abdulaziz Al Saud approached him quickly, speaking finally in English. "Thank you for eliminating our enemy," he stated plainly, a slight smile on his face. "In the past, the United States has not been as been as willing to take immediate action against its enemies until now." Meanwhile, Trump exited the stage and began to approach the smiling Saudi leader.

In that moment Cena's cocky, lighthearted grin turned into a solemn, serious look. "The...the past?" His head began to hurt. "The...the past…" He began to groan as the pain intensified, excruciating pain ripping through his head. He screamed, startling the celebrating Saudi king who backed off, a concerned look on his face. Trump looked at the face of the WWE with mild concern as he approached. "He should be fine. We've altered his mind to the point where he can't remember anything anyways." Trump chucked to himself, fiddling with his toupee. "He's just a killing machine now."

Meanwhile, the pain in John "The Doctor of Thuganomics'" Cena's head had grown to be painful beyond his wildest dreams as he attempted to remember anything before the past week, an invisible scythe tearing through his skull. He began to remember a vague idea from before the operation, a life of Americana for-fun violence and joy. Cena couldn't remember the rest, just the operation and the endless pain he experienced. The Saudi king, meanwhile, looked on at Cena with a look that both seemed apprehensive of the screaming former wrestler and his violent capability as well as legitimately concerned about the man's health. "Is he all right, ?" He asked with sincerity. Donald shrugged. "I'm sure he'll be fine." He muttered, turning away and beginning to move towards the stage again.

Out of nowhere, the muscular arm of Cena sprouted at the speed of sound, a _crack_ sounding out as his fist broke the sound barrier. The powerful arm of the WWE Champ smashed through the Saudi Monarch's chest, shattering his ribs and killing him instantly as he was propelled backwards, flying into the wall. He let out a long, incoherent cry as he soared, his hands flailing wildly before he hit the ground, his eyes and mouth gaping open as he took his last choked breath.

John "Mr. Money in the Bank" Cena gripped the nearby Michel Suleiman, who cried out. "P-please," He cried out. "We are an ally of America, a-and a democratic state. Have mercy." The rage in Cena's eyes only grew. He grasped the Lebanese leader's head and pulled it close to him, his mouth inches from his ear. "I am no American, sir." He whispered. "I am a _god._ " He tossed the limp Lebanese man's body into the air, positioned his body in a crouching position, and dragon-kicked the Middle Eastern leader smashing through the ceiling, sending him hurtling hundreds of feet into the air until his crippled body smashed into the ground miles away, shattering every bone in his body as if it was brittle glass. Meanwhile, President Trump watched from the head of the hall, stroking his chin with a neutral expression as he observed John "The Champ" Cena grip President Abd Rabbuh Mansur Hadi of Yemen and President Fuad Masum of Iraq in his two separate hands. He gripped the center of their respective torsi tightly and told them softly to "straighten out." Fear in their souls, they straightened their bodies to the best of their abilities, only to be horrified as John "The Chain Gang Soldier" Cena hurled them as human javelins through the hole in the ceiling created by another middle eastern leaders' demise, sending both Hadi and Masum hurtling into the atmosphere, flesh and skin quickly burning off of their bodies as they soared upwards, swiftly and painfully burning to death.

John "The Cenation Leader" Cena looked down and took a deep breath, regaining his composure. The group of leaders now huddled together in a corner, staring at the behemothic ex-marine that stood over them, shirtless and drenched in sweat. Netanyahu stared at the champ's bulging pectoral muscles with a mix of awe and terror as the colossal man approached him. Cena gripped him tightly by the throat and tossed him a few feet in the air, sending the Israeli prime minister crying out as John "The Prototype" Cena leapt 10 full feet and brought himself down on the feeble Israeli with the force of god almighty and unleashed his finishing move Godslammer, sounding a loud _crack_ as his absurdly toned body broke the sound barrier in a colossal explosion of dust and carpet as the entire ring was destroyed, littering the landscape of the surrounding desert with WWE material. Where Netanyahu once stood there only remained a series of mangled limbs and fragmented bones in the center of an enormous crater.

In the wreckage of the once-great structure, two other leaders lay dead, bodies annihilated by the bone-crushing impact of his legendary finishing move. Sheikh Tamim bin Hamad bin Khalifa Al Thani of Qatar lay in 3 equally unrecognizable pieces, each an expanse of space from one another. Hamad bin Isa bin Salman Al Khalifa, King of Bahrain, laid face down in the sand, a wet cloud of scarlet red blooming outwards in the sand from his fairly intact corpse. Abdullah II bin al-Hussein, king of Jordan, meanwhile, had seemingly escaped with his life. He ran frantically through the sandy hills, never looking back to give John "Fruity Pebbles" Cena any edge in the mortal cat-and-mouse game he knew they were locked in. Suddenly, a brawny, winged shadow cast over him for a split second. Despair set into his heart as he processed the fact that John "Big Match John" Cena had taken to the skies with a jet-black wingsuit, soaring gracefully through the sky. Abdullah barely had time to register pain as Cena crashed into him, moving at inconceivable speeds in order to soar around most of the world, smashing the Jordanian monarch into the White House and collapsing the west wing of Donald Trump's shining white residence using the speed he had gained from crossing through most of Earth. He fluidly transitioned out of his forceful strike, backflipping thrice as he spiraled through the air, sticking his landing perfectly. Although there was nothing that John "The Man Who Never Gives Up" Cena would have liked to do more than sit down at a Washington DC diner and have a traditional American meal, he knew that there was still work to be done. He looked at the great white structure before rising and gliding back to the wreckage of the great hall.

John "The Man That Runs The Place" knew that within his 10-minute journey around the world, a few of the leaders would have escaped. He found this acceptable. Some of the leaders would go to their homes and tell the stories of fear that John had crafted. He looked out upon the craters and devastation he had caused, and smiled. The catastrophe was his masterpiece. Only one leader remained within the area that he could sense. Bashar Assad, the tyrannical president of Syria, was slowly traveling, calling for help without the knowledge that there was no one to hear him but the one man seized by bloodlust in the area.

Sailing forwards in the air, Cena looked down, a wild grin on his face. With immense force, he shot his own body downwards bulleting towards the frail Syrian dictator. As John "Mr. P" Cena's fist made contact with Bashar's body, the enormous force with which he attacked was too powerful for the very continuum of time and space itself, causing a collapse of everything involving Bashar Assad. In the instant that the fist made it's critical impact, Bashar simply ceased to exist. The entire history of the middle east was rewritten as it was revealed that not only had Bashar Assad never taken power in the middle eastern nation, he had never even been born. John "Willy Wonka" Cena watched, in mild interest, the basic laws of the universe collapse as the matter that comprised Assad disappeared into an abyss not even John "I identified with hiccup in how to train your dragon" Cena could ever hope to understand.

With his job done, John "Specialist in Elder Law" Cena looked out at the seemingly boundless ocean of desolate sand that greeted him. The city that was once there was gone, the destruction of the one-sided battle that had occurred rendering the once-great metropolis a mere pillar of sand and charred cement. John "Gay Marriage" Cena looked out across the barren sands. There was still work to be done. His thought was cut short by a personal call from Donald Trump. He rose and answered. "What is it?" He asked resentfully, speaking to an old friend as well as a new enemy. "Look up." Trump muttered, hanging up. Cena barely had time to register thought as the warhead slammed into the desert mere inches from him, pluming a grotesque mushroom cloud, visible hundreds of miles away. In a flash of thermonuclear light, all meat was burned off of John Cena's skin, leaving only a pile of bleached-white bone, decayed by the flash of light that had, for now, ended his existence. Where the conference for peace had begun with optimism, the desert now only bore the desolate scenery of nuclear annihilation.

A gasp, gulping through pages of static ice,

Bursting through the covers of water

To behold the Slavic sun, light immense and glowering:

Vladimir Putin brushes it off, flesh rippling like the gills of a fish.

He flexes, sighs, cracks his knuckles two times.

"It is a good day to bask in the warmth of the Motherland."

With ease his muscular stature parts the frost of the river

As he enters and returns bearing the bear he hath slain

In prolonged, turbulent strife.

Its flesh parts with simplicity

Serrated teeth gnaw hungrily at grizzly meat.

Putin hums a song of Russia

Saws back and forth to the homely rhythm.

"Tenacity, veracity, the city of valor;

Soldiers march at my command

To reduce the land of the USA

To smoldering ash."

Then a ringtone buzz—Wrecking Ball by Miley Cyrus.

Profane, American uninspiration assaults his ears–

Vicious notes, capitalist idiocracy:

Putin shudders and recoils, but his muscles do not bow to fear.

A heroic twist of the wrist

A wrench and an expulsion of his fist (like a birth in reverse)

Still dripping with gastric juices, an iPhone emerges from the bowels of his prey.

"Putin here. What do you want, capitalist scum?"

"Trump here. Happy thermonuclear winter!"

Putin turns, baring his teeth, jaws unleashed.

No hope for him; a mushroom cloud blooms on the horizon.

"God Almighty." His last words are a whisper.


End file.
